


Fighting for Love

by DarknessBreathing (Breath4Soul)



Series: John is a Tender BAMF [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (ಠ‿↼), Attempted Seduction, BAMF John Watson, Captain John Watson, Dark John, Dark Sherlock, Feelings, Feels, Fighting Kink, Fluff and Angst, John is a Saint, Kissing, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Play Fighting, Sexual Tension, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-13 00:57:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5688439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/DarknessBreathing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>After some <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5637775">research</a> and deductions Sherlock concludes that he has the most chance of successfully engaging John in a physical relationship if he attacks him while engaging him in some competetive flirtation tactics.<br/></b><br/>A lot of John being a tender BAMF.<br/>___________________________</p><blockquote>
  <p>“What the hell has gotten into you?” John growls, leaning over him from behind.</p>
  <p>“<i>You</i>, if the night goes well,” Sherlock replies in a silky voice. The stunned ex-soldier is startled into releasing the man kneeling beneath him. </p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The weariness of a long day at surgery settles into John as he closes the door on a rainy London evening and lumbers up the seventeen stairs to the sitting room of the flat. He swings open the door and his eyes sweep wearily across the dimly lit sitting room seeking out his mad-genius flatmate. He barely has time to register Sherlock's presence standing in the shadows to his right, before the willowy figure springs at him. Long thin hands clutch him by the collar of his jumper and slam the ex-soldier against the wall. The dull thud echoes in the quiet. It is joined by a low and guttural sound rolling from Sherlock's throat.

“Sherlock. What the bloody hell are you doing?” The doctor chokes out, winded by the sudden assault. His body immediately bristles in response to the threat, but he is in intentional in keeping his hands to his sides. _This is Sherlock, after all._ Sherlock takes another step forward, crowding the shorter man against the wall. His dark curls fall erratically over his forehead as those silver-blue eyes pierce his flatmate and he leans in close. John holds firm, tipping his chin up and meeting the challenge in that heated stare.

“John.” His voice is deeper and rawer than usual. The strange tone and cadence makes the name both a question and an answer. His eyes burn with a startling intensity and John feels his breath catch in his chest, his mind clearing of the fog of weariness to a sharp alertness. The detective’s body seems to vibrate with energy, like a tightly coiled spring. Being tuned to all things Sherlock is often necessary for their survival and the ex-soldier can feel the tension in his companion’s muscles the same as when they are facing down a dangerous suspect. However, all that intensity is focused on him now and his body twitches to respond.

The next question never leaves John's lips. Sherlock abruptly yanks him forward by his jumper collar and slams him back against the wall again, harder this time. As the compact man’s head and shoulders rebound, the detective pushes forward with his full body to pin his companion. A grunt escapes through the ex-soldier’s clenched teeth. He swiftly releases his right hand from John's collar and swings his fist wide, directed at his blogger’s face. 

This is all it takes for the ex-soldier’s army training to surge into operation. The world seems to slow down for John as, in a flurry of quick, precise movements he swiftly deflects the oncoming punch and with a swoop of his arm over and downward breaks Sherlock's hold on his collar. The ex-soldier pushes off the wall, turning his shoulder into the tall, thin assailant and, like a rugby player, drives his thickly muscled shoulder into the other man's chest to push him back. 

A sharp grunt of alarm escapes Sherlock. The gangly man stumbles, nearly tripping backward over the coffee table. John lunges forward and catches him by the arm only to be greeted by the detective swinging his other fist around in an effort to land a weakly delivered punch. Sherlock’s bony arm meets with a sharp whack from the meaty part of the ex-soldier’s forearm effectively deflecting the blow. 

Anger now honed as sharp as a knife inside the ex-soldier at the sudden unwarranted assault, he steps forward and slaps the manic man across the face with his open right hand. It is not full strength nor his dominant hand but it rocks Sherlock. He takes a step back and steadies himself; fingertips gingerly probing at his reddened cheek as he looks past John. His expression is indiscernible. His eyes are dark pools with a silver rim. Then he blinks and focuses in on John as a dangerous smile pulls at his lips.

The two men stand apart a moment, muscles tense, sizing each other up. John is bristling now. The cool, calm, cuddly facade is stripped and the tiredness of the day is completely forgotten as everything in him itches for a good row. His jaw is clenched and his eyes have a darkness to them that is savage and powerful. He knows Sherlock Holmes just picked a fight he can't win. 

“Good,” he draws seeing this change in the ex-soldier’s eyes. 

“Very,” John retorts confidently, setting his jaw. He knows the genius detective can be an arrogant prick about his exceptional brain, however, the ex-soldier is secure in the superiority of his fighting skills. They've never had a good all out physical fight, and John finds himself eager to show the pretentious man a thing or two. This has been a long time coming. He is tired of being underestimated.

Sherlock gives a mirthless laugh and their eyes remain locked as he sheds his housecoat. John sheds his coat in kind and they toss them away. The well-muscled ex-soldier plants his feet and rolls his shoulders, clenching his fists. The lean and wiry detective begins dancing from foot to foot. 

“A slap,” he tuts with a condescending smile. “Why would _Captain_ John Watson pull his punches?”

John adjusts his jaw and grits out, “Don't expect me to keep doing so.”

“I'd be rather disappointed if you did.” Sherlock’s smile is almost predacious.

John beckons him forward. Without further preamble a lean and swift body lunges at John. The ex-soldier dodges his right jab. He lets Sherlock's left fist land a punch to his ribs to capture the detective's arm. He quickly rolls his hand under the other man's thin wrist and drives his arm back over his own shoulder; pulling him off balance. He pulls his arm backward and down, and supplements the move with a sharp kick to the back of the knee. This forces the taller man to kneel. John then twists his arm up his back and holds it there. 

“What the hell has gotten into you?” John growls, leaning over him from behind.

“ _You_ , if the night goes well,” Sherlock replies in a silky voice. The stunned ex-soldier draws back, startled into releasing the man kneeling beneath him. Sherlock falls forward onto his stomach. He rolls to his back and twines his leg around one of John's, yanking and twisting so he crashes to the floor. John kicks him off and rolls away and up into a crouch. Sherlock rolls to a crouch as well.

“Dirty trick,” John mutters bitterly. He’d thought he'd managed to get the situation quickly and efficiently under control, but leave it to Sherlock to throw a monkey wrench into the works. To play at flirting seems especially insulting from his long-time friend.

“All’s fair in _love_ and _war,_ John.” Sherlock smirks. John growls irritably. Adrenaline surging through his veins in that intoxicating rush, he feels a twinge of delight at Sherlock’s commitment to winning at all costs. That will surely make John's victory that much sweeter.

“No playing fair then?” John is smiling, but it is his dangerous smile. Sherlock lifts an eyebrow.

“Oh, John…” Sherlock rises up to his full height. “I’m not _playing_ anymore.”

The words barely leave his lips before John is in motion, charging at him like a battering ram. The ex-soldier stays low and his arms wrap around the thin man's waist as that long, angular body folds around the shorter, stout one. They crashed to the floor in a tangle. 

Sherlock anticipates this attack and in the seconds after landing he lets his body relax, providing no further fight. John immediately feels the struggle end, and lies motionless and askew on top of him, accepting the unspoken surrender. They both are panting breathlessly.

“Is it Cocaine or Heroine” John demands.

“What would I need drugs for, John? This is far more... _stimulating._ ”

Something about the way Sherlock draws out his last word sends fingers of sensation up John's spine. An all too familiar burning in his gut makes him very aware that it no longer makes sense to be lying on his flatmate in the middle of their sitting room. He moves to shift away, but with a suddenly flurry of motion, Sherlock pulls up, arches over John’s back and grabs at his waist, forcefully yanking his jumper up onto his head to the point that the smaller man is trapped with arms straight above his head. Taking advantage of his temporary blindness, Sherlock shoves his companion off and onto his back. He gains the upper hand, straddling John. 

John wriggles around on the floor, arms and face trapped in the wooly fabric, struggling to pull up his jumper over his head when he can't bend his elbows. No sooner than he at last frees his head, then one of Sherlock’s elbows lands on his throat and the other arm grabs and twists his jumper to hold his still trapped arms. John is effectively pinned; his hands captured in his jumper over his head. The ex-soldier flushes with embarrassment and lets out a groan knowing Sherlock will never let him live down the fact that one of his _ugly_ jumpers did him in. John mentally notes that the detective really is much better at hand-to-hand combat than he's ever let on.

“Know when you are beaten, John.” Sherlock chides pressing his elbow harder against the fuming man’s throat. John lifts his chin. Both men are huffing from the exertion. 

He goes still underneath Sherlock. His face is very close to the ex-soldier’s as he strains to both keep his arms pinned above his head and to maintain the pressure of his elbow at the prone man’s throat.

“The danger real enough yet, John?” His warm breath fans over John’s face. He inhales deeply and his legs wrap tighter around the man below, his thighs squeezing. John feels the body on top of him shudder and emitt a shaky breath. Understanding dawns on John and he smirks. “Two can play at that game.” He lifts up so his mouth is close to Sherlock’s ear and his breath makes Sherlock’s hair dance. His lips barely brush the outer rim of the detective's sensitive ear. “Sherlock,” he breathes slowly with the honeyed tone he has used on lovers in the past. “There are consequences for playing dirty.”

John feels the shiver travel down Sherlock’s body and the detective draws back with a gasp. His grip loosens enough for the ex-soldier to wrench an arm free from where it was tangled in his jumper. John swiftly snags a handful of his hair, and yanks. Sherlock grunts, and goes limp. The ex-soldier’s other hand closes around the throat of the man above him. He puts his hands up and slides down and off of John. John follows Sherlock’s movements, not releasing his grasp on the man's hair and neck. They kneel facing each other; John’s hand digging in hair and clutching throat, Sherlock’s arms hanging limply at his sides, surrendered. 

Sherlock pulls his head away experimentally. When John does not relinquish his grip on the hair, the sound the brunet makes is less a gasp than a groan of pleasure. John's eyes narrow on Sherlock trying to figure out if this is some strategy to make him let go, or if he actually finds the pulling of his hair pleasurable.

“Do you want me on the floor, John?” Sherlock murmurs in his most sultry and deep baritone. He looks up at John from under his dark lashes. There is a sly smile in his voice that makes John’s already rapidly thumping heart stutter. John’s anger surges and he stiffens and grits his teeth.

“You’re going to tell me what the hell is going on,” he commands in a tone from his army days. Sherlock’s faint smile grows. He is silent a moment, poised so John's firm hand puts just enough tension on his hair to be painful. He pulls away again and when John's hand doesn’t follow he lets out a very sensual moan and his eyes roll back. John watches, mesmerized.

“I’d much rather show you,” Sherlock breathes. His eyes snap open and his hands fly up to John's neck. Long fingers curl into soft tissue, cutting off his companion’s airway. John’s waning adrenaline spikes. 

John release his hair and bring his arm down hard on Sherlock's arms, breaking his hold on his neck. He captures Sherlock’s wrists with both of his strong hands and drives his shoulder into his lean body until it slams to the floor. The ex-soldier straddles him and, griping a wrist in each hand, pins them to the floor at shoulder height at either side of his head. The detective's bawdy eyes blaze as he looks up at John. His black curls are fanned out like a dark halo against the wooden floor boards. 

“I think we know who is better at this game _now_ ,’ John asserts smugly. A deep laugh rumbles out of Sherlock and resonates through John at their only point of contact, his groin. He grimaces and adjusts himself away. Sherlock’s knowing smile irritates John and he clears his throat.

“I will concede your superiority on the matter of hand-to-hand combat… but, as for the _other_ matter.” Sherlock’s eyes move to John's lips. The ex-soldiers tongue automatically darts out to wet them. Sherlock lets out a sound of approval, shifting underneath him. His eyes drift back up to meet John's, a little glassier. “That remains to be seen, John.” 

John feels a rush of heat start in his face and surge down his body, curling into his gut, leaving everything tingling and blazing with anticipation. Sherlock’s pupils are blown wide into dark languid pools of wanton need. His body sinks down into Sherlock's. He feels the heat radiating through the thin layers of fabric as more and more of him rests flush against his companion. Sherlock’s breath is rapid and shallow, and John feels it against his own rib cage. Each heave shakes the thin man’s whole frame. The evidence of his desire is pressing hard against John's thigh.

A little sound, like a groan caught in the back of Sherlock’s throat, brings John back to himself.

Fifteen minutes ago John dragged himself into the door of the flat anticipating a night of little more than crap telly and takeaway. The surrealness of ending up, bruised, breathless and with Sherlock pinned under him looking very much as if he’s ready to shag his flatmate senseless washes over him.

“Sh-Shit! What are we doing? What am _I_ doing," John chokes out in a raspy voice as he pulls back slightly; raising his chest up off Sherlock's and loosening his grips. 

"I thought that was fairly obvious by now, John" Sherlock growls. He twists an arm free and rips John's shirt open with one swoop, buttons fly like ammunition; bouncing and skittering across the hard wooden floor. 

John gasps, capturing Sherlock's hand as it tries to plunge further down in the space between their bodies. He pins it by Sherlock's head again, gripping harder. He cringes and fumes as he glances down at the long, thin, red welt from Sherlock's nail rising down the center of his chest.

Sherlock looks up at John haughtily, seeming smugly proud of his mark on John’s skin. A devious smile pulls at his flushed lips. It's a smile that makes John feel as if he is the one pinned rather than Sherlock.

"It's what you do best, John." Sherlock makes a move to break free again and John slams his chest down against the wiley man to pin him. 

Sherlock lets out a grunt and then a sigh. John feels the roll of his hips under his body and he can't help the sharp inhale as the sudden swell of heat addles his brain.

Sherlock’s voice is a dangerous whisper close to John's ear. "Ravage me, _my_ Soldier, _my_ Captain."

John shudders, goosebumps springing up on his neck and back, as his mind careens over a cliff of desires. He feels all his muscles clench. A broken groan escapes his lips at the wrenching feeling of all the blood rushing away. His body presses down against Sherlock of it’s own volition. 

There was a time when he spent far too many late nights and cold showers trying _not_ to think about the flares of anger he had towards Sherlock. He knew they had little to do with anger and everything to do with sexual frustration. 

Almost from the first moment, but certainly after that mind-blowing display of mental prowess followed by a flirtatious wink from the doorway, he had a desire to possess this strangely beautiful, invigorating, infuriating and wholly unattainable being that was always standing too close and looking at him too softly when the mad genius was otherwise so guarded with the rest of the world. It was new, strange and more than a little unnerving to feel so passionately about another person, much-less a bloke. A bloke that called himself a high-functioning sociopath and seemed very happy with his very exclusive, celibate relationship with _The Work_. Still, there it was. 

He found himself indulging in tantalizing little fantasies of what it would be like to take the younger and, he had to assume, less experienced man and love him fiercely, almost savagely. He had desired nothing more than to strip away all Sherlock's false layers, break him down and take full possession of everything that was so raw and spectacular hidden deep within him. There was something extremely appealing about the idea of dominating this man that was so hard, cold and aloof with the rest of the world.

Just returned from the war and still so broken inside himself, there was hardly any other way he was capable of loving Sherlock at that time. 

He realized some time later that it was not love at all, it was just unbidden _lust_ really. His feelings for Sherlock changed and matured over time. What he feels for Sherlock now is nothing so simple as desire, it is so much deeper and fuller than that. 

His feelings are not so much sexual, though he can't deny that his body automatically responds to Sherlock's proximity at times. Now it is generally less of an all consuming flame than a slow and steady ember that he carefully manages. 

Now Sherlock has just thrown gasoline on the fire. All his old fantasies churn to the surface bringing with them the intoxicating symphony of muscle memories those thoughts were so frequently satisfied with. It takes all his willpower to quiet his screaming body and get that unquenched desire back under control. 

"I - I - _No_ , Sherlock..." He is panting, muscles quivering with effort to restrain himself. The ache is painful. He takes some deep breaths, trying to focus his thoughts. "Then what, Sherlock?... the _doing_ is the easy part, yeah... what happens _after_?"

"Then you sew me back together. Heal me, _my_ Doctor... It's what you've always done to me... it's what you do best." 

John’s chest aches for a different reason now. “Stop, Sherlock,” he begs. “What is this about?”

Sherlock’s legs wrap around John and he thrusts up. His voice is deep and seductive. “This is about _you_ and _me_ , John.” He rolls his hips. “You _want_ me… I can feel it.”

“Always,” He huffs allowing the sensation to make his own hips jerk in response.

John’s brain struggles for coherent thought. “I - I don’t want you like _that,_ Sherlock.” Anguish and embarrassment flicker over Sherlock’s face. John feels him sink away from his body, somehow making himself seem small and fragile. His body aches at the loss. 

“No. no!” John says desperate to explain. He sinks his body onto the man below as a comfort this time. It seems to work as he lets out a sigh. He still refuses to meet John's eyes. 

“Look at me, Sherlock.” Sherlock’s eyes tighten at the corners and his mouth pulls down. “No, look at me.” John rubs circles with his thumbs where they grasp the thin wrists. His eyes slowly raise to John's. “I want you. God, I want you… have for so long… but I want you as you _are_ , Sherlock. I’m not looking to change you. I certainly don’t plan to _destroy_ you... _Love_ doesn’t work like _that_.”

 _“Love?”_ Sherlock's flushed face suddenly goes paler. His eyes search John’s. “Is _that… that’s_ what you feel for me, John?” The doctor scans the detective’s face. Sherlock's shock is obvious. John feels his chest tighten. _The bloody idiot really doesn’t get it yet,_ he marvels. All they'd gone through, everything they’d done for each other and he was still remarkably oblivious when it comes to the two of them.

“Yeah,” John smiles warmly at him. “Yes, of course I love you, Sherlock. Of course I do.” Sherlock let’s out a long breath. Suddenly his lips are on John's collarbone, his neck, the sensitive line of my jaw. He is covering John in frantic, desperate kisses; using teeth and suction to leave his mark, using tongue and brushes of soft lips to soothe the inflamed skin. John’s head is spinning. His body is staging a rebellion and overthrowing his willpower.

“Wait. wait!”

“No,” Sherlock growls into John's neck. When he reluctantly pulls his body out of the younger man's reach, Sherlock surges against John's hold on his wrists, trying to follow him. Sherlock flops back. “God, I have waited too long already, John,” he groans with a pleading edge to his voice.

“What was all this about then? The attack? The seduction.”

Sherlock groans in frustration. He blinks repeatedly, like he is trying to bring his brain back online. The words pour out of him in his typical rapid-fire deduction method. “I wished to engage you in a physical relationship. Given your apparent opposition to intimacy with a man, probability of successfully engaging you in such action was low.”

“However, I deduced from our previous experiences and from your recent [confession](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5637775) about your only experience with a male that your rigid adherence to normative touch was impacted by several factors including heightened adrenaline, a sense of danger, competitiveness and dominance, concern for others, protectiveness and a sense of responsibility or duty”

“I could wait until we were in a life threatening situation and hope that a sufficient opportunity arose to initiate contact. It was unlikely, and I was, frankly, too impatient. Alternatively, I could have arranged an attack by an assailant to occur here in the flat. However, there were too many other potential factors. Murder, afterall, is hardly an amphrodisiac, if you, for instance, shot or otherwise brought this assailant to vigilante justice.Therefore I concluded a physical altercation between you and I coupled with flirtation of a competitive nature and the opportunity to assert dominance was most likely to result in sexual relations.” 

Sherlock concluded and looked up at John, his eyes expectant. No doubt he thought his blogger’s usual ‘ _brilliant'_ or _‘amazing’_ would follow.

“You really are a bloody idiot.” Sherlock looks startled a moment then his eyes narrow and his mouth tightens. “No, don't be like that. You know you’re a genius but you almost always are an idiot when it comes to me.” Sherlock purses his lips, shifting them to the side. He doesn’t need him to agree. They both know the man's genius falls short of understanding anything to do with John Watson. 

“I would do _anything_ for you, Sherlock. If you wanted me like _this_ all you ever had to do was ask… or even just, I don’t know, walk up and kiss me... you never needed some elaborate ruse…. I was always here. I was always yours for the taking.” 

Sherlock shifts underneath John, looking slightly embarrassed and extremely vulnerable. He is obviously having difficulty adjusting to these facts. The doctor has the distinct feeling he just turned his companion's understanding of the world on its head.

Sherlock clears his throat, His eyes have a sheen to them as he stares up at John. Then his jaw sets. 

“I am trying to kiss you _now_ but you seem determined to deny us _both_ the _pleasure._ ” The searing look he gives John accompanied with the way he rolls the word ‘pleasure’ around in his mouth produces a conspicuous throb in the doctor's already aching body and his hips pitch into the man below. Sherlock smiles with satisfaction. He leans forward, expecting John to offer himself up for his ministrations once more. This steadies John. 

“Yes, well I _did_ say there would be _consequences_ for playing dirty, didn’t I,” John remarks with a precocious smile. Sherlock’s smile fades into frustration. He squirms. 

“Oh, come on, John. Play fair.” His voice is annoyed but edged with desperation. 

“Not playing anymore,” John replies in a deep, firm voice. He tightens all the muscles in his body knowing the man below can feel it. 

Sherlock’s breath speeds up.“What, John? What do you want?” 

He smiles. “A promise…” Sherlock’s eyes widen. He stills. His muscles are tense. “Never lie to me and never leave me again.” 

“That’s all?” Sherlock asks quietly. 

“It’s enough. The rest can be worked out.”

“Yes. I promise.” His body is trembling but John is certain it is for another reason now. He feels like a weight is leaving him and it makes him suddenly lightheaded and a bit giddy. 

“Alright,” John says releasing his wrists. He lets his fingertips skim down the soft skin of his companion’s forearms, coming to rest at his elbows. He leans in and buries his lips close to Sherlock’s ear. His lips caress the pale ear nestled among the dark curls with each word. “I’m yours.” John breathes. His body begins to quake. “Soul and _body._ Yours, Sherlock.” 


	2. Surrender

“This isn't you,” John murmurs skimming his hands lightly over Sherlock's inner arm. His fingers brushing a delicate path from his wrists down over the silky sleeve of of his expensive white shirt, coming to rest on the column of his throat. 

His fingers explore the hills and divots of smooth, pale skin stretched over muscle and cartilage there; feeling it shift as the man beneath him swallows. “You’re the most overbearing, imperious, bastard I know,” He whispers. His voice is intense with desire, but the warm fondness underpinning it remains clear. “Submitting to someone else, turning yourself over completely, that just isn’t you, Sherlock.” 

His thicker fingers lightly trace Sherlock’s prominent collar bone and swoop back up. He flattens his palms to gently curl around each side of his neck in a way that could be used for choking but now holds the gentle pressure of caging a butterfly. The doctor had visually mapped this bare expanse of flesh with his eyes a thousand times over the years, admiring from afar the way it moved and imagining how it would feel under his touch. Heat now coils around his insides, squeezing tight as his thumbs stroke up and down over the ridges of Sherlock’s esophagus and the bulge of Sherlock’s adam's apple. 

Sherlock’s silver blue eyes have turned a deep green, rimming his gaping pupils as he drinks in the sight of John stradling him. He feels a squeezing inside his chest that makes it difficult to breathe as he revels in the feel of his John saturating him with reverence and intense adoration. There is something in the ex-soldier's smile that he hasn’t seen before; _hunger_ \- carnal but carefully restrained. 

The detective tips up his chin, baring more of his neck and feels the thrill of danger shoot down his spine at the vulnerability of it. Knowing he is offering himself up whilst John looms over him looking very much like a wolf that is eager to tear his throat out. The jolt of exhilaration fans out like electric sparks through his groin and he groans with the effort of restraining the natural pitch of his hips upward wanting to seek out more pressure and friction from the strong and enticingly powerful man above him. With a deep growling sound in response John’s hands on Sherlock's neck increase their pressure ever so slightly. He can feel Sherlock’s voice rumble across his vocal cords.

“It could be,” Sherlock breathes huskily. “For you I am - I do... only you, John.” 

John’s smile deepens. There is no denying the way that statement coming from Sherlock Holmes makes his ego, _and other things,_ swell. He pulls back a little and runs his eyes over Sherlock, considering. He hums in appreciation of the beautiful sight he beholds. 

The young brunet is lying so perfectly still and pliant beneath him, clearly to illustrate his point that he is capable of a submissive role. His dark hair is thoroughly mussed from the brawl that had lead to John straddling him on the floor of the sitting room. It fans out around his head in a dark cloud that begs to have fingers tangled in it. Sherlock’s full lips are parted, panting out air, with the smallest smile pulling upward at the corners. His eyes are wide with wonder and full of unshielded desire and his pale cheeks are flushed pink. 

John shakes his head, marveling at the shift in fortunes. The euphoria of finally being here, like this with Sherlock, making his head spin momentarily. 

The ex-soldier swallows, commanding himself to focus again. His left hand moves down into the v of Sherlock’s shirt, the pressure pulling loose the buttons from their holes as he goes. He notes his companion's hands twitching at his sides, obviously wanting to reciprocate his touches, but waiting for permission. 

“There’s no shamming in this, Sherlock. It’s surrender. You can’t fake your way through it.”

“I’ve done extensive research, John. I know what I am getting myself into.” Sherlock retorts, looking up through dark lashes. His breathing picks up as John’s hand trails lower, exposing more and more of his chest to the cool air of the flat. His dark curls shift around on the wooden floorboards as he shakes his head. His eyes speak of a mix of desperation and determination.

John stops and tips his chin to the side, his lips pursed slightly and his eyes narrowed. “Do you?” He leans forward, his voice low and dangerous as his warm breath caresses Sherlock’s ear. “You have no idea what I want to do to you and I have waited a _long_ time to do it.” 

Sherlock shudders in spite of himself. His short laugh is strained. 

He had once told John that his mind is like a rocket trapped on the launch pad tearing itself to pieces and now his body feels the same. He had had years to discipline his mind by the time he uttered that phrase to John, but he has made a point to pay little attention to the demands of his transport and now he feels overwhelmed with the intensity of its unfocused want. 

His desire for his blogger has been so long unquenched that it scarcely can be contained and channeled into actions. His mind scatters through nine different potential scenarios of how he could, within fifteen minutes, have the ex-soldier quivering in a pile of sweat as a coctail of post-coital chemicals courses through his veins. He wants this moment from John to be soft, sweet and slow; repleat with the aching, unrequieted love that has consumed him these past seven years. Yet he equally desires it hard, fast and lustful, the product of the fierce passion of attraction intensified through countless unquelled erotic urges. He feels fractured; his body frozen into inaction by the maddening need for everything at once.

His fingernails dig at the wooden floor and he jerks his head forward and slams it back onto the ground hard enough to rattle his clenched teeth.

“I need you to be in control, John,” Sherlock grows. _Surely John, his conductor of light for his mind, could do the same for his body._

“Shh. Alright, love,” John coos softly, smoothing hands down the lean chest and abdomen of his friend like a handler genteling a twitchy thoroughbred. 

John's use of the word _‘love’_ on him makes Sherlock’s mind stutter offline momentarily; an errie peace flooding his body as he feels cared for in a way he has never experienced before. 

John watches the expression change on his face, Sherlock’s body at last relaxing completely and his features suddenly open and trusting. He stares down at Sherlock in complete surrender to himself and a calm peace comes over him as well.

“Alright,” John breathes with the disciveness of a man taking on a challenging responsibility. “You're mine, Sherlock, and now I am going to give you exactly what you need, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't really set out to make this a chaptered story, but the Kudos and Bookmarks encouraged me to add more.  
> I live for feedback _(it's so lovely to have readers like you)_ and I love to please when I can!
> 
> Recently redid the first chapter. Hopefully flows better now.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing a fight scene was fun! Especially knowing these two men naturally fight very differently and have different motivations for the fight but ultimately aren't out to really hurt each other made it challenging in a fun way!
> 
> This has background from my other story [Research: First Kiss"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5637775)  
> Also if you enjoyed this you may like my other stories in this series:  
> [Love Hurts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5640889)  
> [Slip, Slidin' Away](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5641363)


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